Colors of the Soul
by Arwiona
Summary: Lina's caught between two time periods. She's accidentaly changed the course of History. A mistake that could affect generations to come. To set things right again, she must now race against two different times, while fighting her own unresolved past...
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own any original characters from The Patriot._

**_Author:_** Arwiona

**_Chapter:_** Chapter 1

_Colors of the Soul_

_**Chapter 1**_

There I was again. Week after week, I found myself in that exact spot, in front of that same portrait. Being in the museum was nothing new to me. I went there often, be it to cool off, lift my spirits, or just...be. I loved to surround myself with art. Art that showed the depths of the painters soul. Art that spoke to me in a new way every time. Art that touched my spirit so that I felt I would cry, laugh, or both. And that was what drew me to this portrait. Someone had once told me that the eyes were the window to the soul. In fact I'd heard that more than once. I'd found that it was true, and somehow the artist had managed to capture this man's soul. In keeping with the saying, through the man's eyes. Deep, emerald eyes looked out into the distance, as if he were truly looking out on something. Perhaps someone. Somehow, in adding the green color to the eyes, the artist also conveyed a spark for life... a hunger for adventure... a curiosity for new things... But I also saw a deep sorrow. It was as if the young man had suffered loss. A loss that no words could convey. And somehow the painter had captured even that.

Several times I'd told myself I was crazy. A painting could not convey that kind of emotion. A fact that was supported all the more by the fact that I saw these emotions in a pair of painted eyes. Was what I saw, merely what I wanted to see? I suppose that was often the case... But if that _was_ true, then maybe it was a part of my brain that was just giving me what I needed. Some form of comfort and a get away of the monotony that life could and often did become. But I couldn't really classify my life as monotonous. Between school, art classes, and the craziness I always came home too... No, I could not claim my life was boring. My mother made sure of that.

I glanced at my watch, a sigh escaping my lips. Time to go... But the portrait almost held me there. I chuckled to myself. An inanimate object, rooting me to the floor. Yep, my earlier assessment of craziness wasn't far off. I turned on my heel, still looking over my shoulder at the painting. I finally tore my eyes away from the masterpiece. But when I turned around, I found myself still looking into deep emerald eyes. I shook my head, to make sure I wasn't actually going crazy. But no... I wasn't crazy.

Only... this time, the deep green eyes were fixed on me.

* * *

**A/N:** I was looking through my last fanfic and this one. I found out that I really didn't like how the first chapter had turned out. I realize I shortened it a lot, but think of it as a better introduction to Lina. I figured maybe this would be a show of her passion for the painting... If you already read the original first chapter I'm sure you can imagine who she's run into. Anyway, I'll stop babbling. Haven't been on fanfic in a REALLY long time. I missed it! Thanks for reading though...

MLBL


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own any original characters from The Patriot._

**_Author:_** Arwiona

**_Chapter:_** Chapter 2

_Colors of the Soul_

_**Chapter 2**_

Words of apology ran through my head, and should've made it to my mouth and past my lips. But they didn't. I should've moved....back or off to the side, or somehow out of his way. But I didn't. I was once again, rooted to the floor, and speechless. Nothing had changed except for what held me there. I was shocked to say the least. The object of what had been – I hated to admit it– my obsession had magically transformed into living, breathing...flesh!

"I-" The breath I attempted to take, came at no easy cost.

"Are you all right?" His voice rang in my ears, and somehow brought my reeling mind back into focus.

I chuckled nervously. "Yes. I apologize. I was distracted." My mind still scrambled a little for words, but I was managing to regain my composure. He nodded. I stepped around him, and forced myself to keep moving past him. I fought my every desire to turn around and look back, to make sure my mind wasn't playing tricks on me. To confirm that my imagination had just gotten the best of me and maybe my obsession with the painting was affecting me quite literally. But I didn't stop, didn't turn or look back. I kept moving, down the halls, past gorgeous paintings, and creative sculptures. I kept moving through tall arched doorways, and down flights of steps. Finally I was at the main entrance, and walking through the main doors.

I was instantly greeted with the commotion, noise and odor of downtown in the city I called home. Although if I was to be truly honest with my self, I could not call this place my home. My home was in another country. In a quaint village, where I'd spent so many precious summers. Where my first inspiration to paint had come. Where childhood memories became glimpses into perfection. Where innocence was untainted by the tragedies life had in store, and the pressures of society were nonexistent. Where trust and hope in the good in people was infallible. That was where home was, but home was also the source of a pain that I had long ago promised myself to tuck safely away. It was curious to me that a single place could conjure such a variety of conflicting emotions within one person. Sad and happy memories played through my mind causing chaos in my mind. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of sentiments that I had long ago hoped to be free from. I quickened my pace to the bus stop. Time wasn't stopping while I tried to regain control over my emotions. Mother would not be pleased if I was late on account of that portrait. Again.

* * *

"Lina Maria Magdalena Antonio! Where, for the love of God, were you?!"

I had barely even walked through the door, and my mother's strong, incredibly loud voice assaulted my ears. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as I shrugged out of my coat. I glanced at my watch to find I was hardly even ten minutes later than usual.

"Huh?" Her..._lively_ mother stepped into the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. A wooden spoon stained with tomato sauce in her hand, an apron around her waist, her hair a disheveled mess. She stared at me expectantly, but when I moved to speak she began... "I sit here, staring at that clock, watching as each agonizing minute passes slowly. No calls, no idea where you are, or if you are safe. What am I to do with you?"

"I was at the museum. Where I often am. And I don't know why you are so upset. I'm not even ten _agonizing _minutes late." I sighed, and made my way towards her. Wrapping my arms around her, and planting a kiss on her head, I couldn't help but smile. My crazy, overly dramatic mother probably couldn't help it. It seemed to run in the family. Stereotypical though it was, my hotheaded mother was of Italian parentage, and my grandmother was no different. I couldn't help wondering whether or not I was the same.

"Lina!"

My mother's, ungracious, voice freed me from my reverie. "Yes, Mama?" I smiled.

She shook her head in defeat. "What am I to do with you? Huh? Just what am I going to do with you? You spend hours on end in that museum, staring at a painting of a man who died years ago! Correction, centuries ago!"

"It's not because of the man, Mama." I gave an exasperated sigh. The same argument came around time and time again. I couldn't make her understand, and sometimes it seemed like she stubbornly refused to understand just to give me a hard time.

"Oh, that's right. The artist bared the man's soul through skillful painting of green eyes." Her words dripped with biting mockery. I flinched at her reiteration of my words, verbatim. But she wasn't finished. "I've seen the painting and I see a very good depiction of a man, but that is it, Lina! There is no emotion, or soul in the painting. The man died a long time ago, and so did the artist." My mother shook her head and turned back into the kitchen. I followed.

"Is that what you think of _my_ paintings, Mama?" I sat down at the table, and watched her carefully. I knew my mother treasured my paintings, and the accusation was an unfair blow. Especially when one considered what I painted. But I couldn't help it.

"Of course not, Lina." My mother wasn't loud, for one rare moment. Instead her tone betrayed defeat and sadness. I knew why, and mentally rebuked myself for being so cruel. I got up, and again embraced my mom.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, _tesoro._" She cleared her throat, and patted my arm. "Well, we have company coming."

I released my hold on my mother and leaned on the counter facing her. Trying to drain my face of any negative emotion, I smiled playfully. "Oh? Who, if I might ask?"

"A new friend of mine. I invited her and her family over. They are new in town and I felt we should welcome them." My mother started stirring the pot and adding spices every now and then. It smelled delicious, like my grandmother's cooking in Italy.

"Where are they from?"

"Here originally, but they move around a lot."

I nodded, but otherwise barely acknowledged the information. Apparently that wasn't the reaction my mother expected or wanted.

"Well?"

I raised an eyebrow, "Well what?"

"Lina!"

"What?!"

"Do something! Get yourself presentable or help with the cooking."

"Oh?" I laughed. "What do you mean get myself presentable?"

"Brush your hair, put some makeup on...I don't know!" My mother was back to her crazy, worrisome self. She wasn't my mom if she wasn't worried about something. I smiled and pushed myself away from the counter.

In the living room, I busied myself, setting to order the few messy articles that were strewn about the room. I folded a few blankets, righted a few books, and grabbed a few jackets that belonged in rooms or the closet. Just as I finished, the doorbell rang. My mother yelled at me to get, and I could imagine her going into a frenzy all over again. I hurried to open the door, and was greeted by a sweet looking lady with smiling blue eyes. She was followed by two girls, two little boys, and two young men. Mama came hurrying into the living room, wiping her hands on her apron. I reached for one of the young men's coats and my breath caught in my throat.

* * *

**A/N:** After such a long time without posting or writing, I realize this is short, and...i'm sorry for those who take the time to read, but it was just the perfect place to end it.

By the way, _tesoro_ means treasure.

Anyway...Enjoy!

MLBL


End file.
